


Living Death

by Kyonomiko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Obliviation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyonomiko/pseuds/Kyonomiko
Summary: To Hermione Granger, forgetting who she is might just be worse than death.  Looking for forgiveness, even absolution, Draco Malfoy gives her a hidden place in his world.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 42
Kudos: 121
Collections: Where Gods Dwell: A Dramione Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks as always to LightofEvolution, In Dreams, and MCal, the best dream team of alphas, betas, and cheerleaders I could ever hope for. Also a huge internet hug to Mourning Madame to organizing this fest and allowing me to play around with one of my favorites myths as inspiration.

Just when we think we are hearing one story, we realize it was only the beginning of something else. In May, for instance, a war ended, but that was almost the easy part.

Draco Malfoy sweeps through the halls of his family's ancestral manor, called to attend a meeting in which he has dubious interest and a large stake.

In their west parlour, a group is already gathered. A strange collaboration of Death Eaters, Wizengamot, and Order members. This is the new world order, and Draco has never been more terrified. Gone are the McGonagalls and Greybacks, the forces for pure light and dark. The wizards and witches left standing are far more ruthless. Kingsley Shacklebolt is holding court.

"We all know that Riddle had poor impulse control," the former Order leader chuckles, as if this is a lark. "Of course we had to stand against him; he was dangerous. What we are proposing now is a common sense solution. Muggleborns will have their memories modified in childhood, and leave us nothing to fear from issues with the Statute."

"Does nothing to stop the dilution of our blood," Thoros Nott spits back. One of the most staunch of pureblood supremacists allowed to attend.

Percy Weasley levels the man with a look and snipes, "Yet you followed a half-blood nearly to ruin."

Nott purples, face twisting as he begins to unleash a tirade, but he is interrupted by a stately Narcissa Malfoy.

"Do not embarrass yourself, Thoros. We can no longer deny there is empirical evidence that power is not solely housed in blood. Let's move on to things that matter."

"So you're just giving up centuries of breeding and tradition then, Narcissa?" Nott sneers back at her, and Draco feels his hackles rise. He does not care for anyone speaking to his mother in such a way.

" _We_ will see to the exceptional purity of our lineage, Nott. I advise you to look to your own house. Do you believe your son is… equipped… to give you an heir?" Draco looks to his father, noting the self-satisfied look on Lucius' face as Thoros sits back, red-faced, in his chair. It's a low blow, and everyone knows it. Theodore Nott's proclivities to wizards is no secret, and it is an effective way to end the conversation.

"What of all the Mudbloods- excuse me... Muggleborns... already infiltrated in our society?" A new speaker. Wizened and frail, this is Archibald Cook, one of the longest standing members of the Wizengamot. Though no supporter of the Dark Lord, he has long been a loud voice in favor of the eradication of Muggle influence.

The tides are turning. Propaganda, sweeping through the streets and Ministry sanctioned, reveals incidents during the war which had nearly destroyed the Statute of Secrecy, that threatened the sanctity of exclusion the wizarding world has long celebrated. The Order, it warns, would have us overrun by Muggles. They would see us bowing and scraping to the beasts that overpopulate the world. The herd does not rule the shepherd, they say. The cattle do not sit in judgement of the farm.

Tensions are high once again, but without the folly of Riddle's genocide, logical and pragmatic members of the community are paying attention.

Shacklebolt looks to Cook and answers, "They will be dealt with in a similar fashion."

"What of your family," Thoros throws out at Percy, deflecting from his own issues. "You think your Muggle-loving father is going to roll over with this new decree? Are you ready to face another war, staring at your mother across the battle lines?"

Percy takes a sip of tea from the china in his lap, holding the plate beneath and his pinky extended. With no concern, he says, "Yes, of course. Though, I believe with the proper conversation amongst civilized wizards, we can bring around more of the Order supporters. We aren't discussing anything so barbaric as murder. This is preservation."

"Quite right," pipes up Hallin Greengrass. "Preservation. Muggles can have their tellervisions and hellycopters and other nonsense," he blusters on. "We just need to keep them away from us. Protect ourselves."

"Which brings us back to the anomalies that are Muggleborns," Percy cuts back in.

Draco has never seen the man seem so commanding. Was war good for his fortitude? Or has estrangement from his family made him strong?

"I've been conducting independent research the past two years. Likely, they are a result of squibs or old family lines well into their own past. Regardless, they are perfectly magical. It is their ties to their Muggle family that makes them dangerous. How we have survived this long without an irresponsible sibling or parent blowing this all apart is a mystery."

"So easy to cut out family, eh, Weasley?" Draco couldn't help it. The man is so self-assured, he's endlessly irritating.

The red-head assesses him with a cool look. "We do what we have to do. Some of us make concessions on nothing _but_ family, as I understand it. _Some_ of us look at a bigger picture."

Draco narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to respond, but Shacklebolt takes control once more. "Enough of this. We all seem to agree in some regard that safety is paramount and Muggleborns are the hole in an otherwise tight ship. I, for one, will not be part of the wholesale slaughter of magical people, but nor will I see them integrated while maintaining Muggle connections. My proposal is foolproof and humane. I call a vote. In favour?"

His dark eyes sweep the room, landing only briefly on Draco. Does he have a vote? Draco feels a small flush of pride with having been invited, but his nerves spark as well. He doesn't want this kind of responsibility. And if he votes for this? What then? What does that mean for the Hermione Grangers of the world? Why he is thinking of her specifically he doesn't even want to begin to voice.

"Aye."

"Hear, hear."

"Needs must."

A barrage of positive declarations, some milder than others, are heard around the room. It's unanimous, if somewhat reluctant from some, and then they are all looking at Draco. Why even ask if they are all in agreement? Feeling superfluous but pressured all the same, Draco lets his mind wander just once to chocolate brown eyes obscured by a halo of luxurious hair, then clears the image and raises his hand.

"Agreed."

* * *

If he hadn't known what to expect when he cast his vote, he learns soon enough. The visage of Draco's guilt is a fresh faced wizard across his desk, and he reaches to shake the young man's hand. He is not the first, but the discomfort is always the same.

Six years since Tom Riddle met his end, five since Muggleborns were subjected to forced Obliviation, and today the conflict still rages. Not all out war, but more a collection of insurgencies. Skirmishes, really.

Draco's life had continued much as it was always fated, war aside. He is now studying under his father to learn his place at Malfoy Industries, while simultaneously learning how to maneuver the games of power at the Ministry. All the while, the Muggle Solution Act hangs over the heads of all Wizarding Britain.

"Mister Creevey, thank you for coming in."

"Oh, I appreciated your owl very much." The young man pauses and tilts his head. "I understand we attended Hogwarts together."

Draco nods, posture stiff. He hates this part.

"You'll have to forgive me, of course. I don't have much memory of those days. Magical accident, I'm told. Very rare."

Nodding again, Draco answers mildly, "Yes, I'd heard something to that effect. Must be difficult…"

Dennis waves the thought away. "You know, it's funny, but you can't miss something you never had, am I right?" The younger man offers a crooked grin, and Draco's stomach turns. He voted for this. It's monstrous. As bad as anything Riddle every suggested, wrapped up in all the pretty trappings of justification.

"Your family helps you through it, I suppose?" Draco prods, curious in spite of his guilt.

"No family to speak of, unfortunately. Parents died when I was small. Only child, so it's just me." He shrugs, and Draco squeezes his eyes closed just briefly, a vision of a small boy with a camera flashing in the darkness. A boy forgotten by the one who should remember.

"Well, at any rate, let's see about this position." Looking for something to hide the tremor of his hands, Draco flips through the parchments on his desk. "It appears you had excellent marks. N.E.W.T.S. were pretty exceptional, notably Transfiguration."

"Even if I hardly remember taking them," Dennis says with a chuckle. Draco can't end this interview fast enough.

"I think we might have something for you in product development. Entry level, you understand."

The man brightens and sits up straight. "Of course. Really, I'd be pleased with any position. Give me a chance to show you what I can do, and I'm certain you'll see my potential." Considering Draco a moment, he asks, "Did we know each other well?"

"No," Draco answers quickly. "Not well." Shaking off his curt demeanor, he tries to add a charming smile. "Too many years between us, I'm afraid."

Dennis agrees in a self-deprecating way as to the truth of his younger age and thanks Draco again as he is hustled back out into the corridor.

Rid of him, Draco slumps behind his desk and rests his forehead on his palm just as his father enters the room. He tries to straighten and look nonplussed, but Lucius Malfoy didn't get where he is without being observant.

"Issues with the interview process? Are they as hopeless as the last batch?"

"No, Father. I've just hired one. For R and D." He holds out the parchment with Creevey's information and watches his father's face as his eyes dart across the page.

"I see. Remember him, I suppose?"

"His brother was killed at Hogwarts," Draco offers, still watching for response. Lucius has played his cards close to the vest the past few years, perhaps learning from the folly of extremism.

Stoic as ever, his father gives nothing away. "Very well. I trust your judgement. Your last three placements are settled in quite well." Before Draco can respond with as much as a 'thank you', Lucius continues. "I've come to say I have been called away and you will lead the conference with our Italian investors."

Called away.

That is his father's very civilized way to speak of his ongoing role in a new, quiet war. He is often involved in the capture and obliviation of Muggleborns, though the frequency of this has been slowing over the years.

"How long do you expect to be gone?"

There is a pause, uncharacteristic to the very decisive Malfoy. "It might be that this will be one of the last. Potter has been spotted."

Draco starts. Potter… A name he hasn't heard aloud in some time but is always on the tips of everyone's tongue. Though he was raised with Muggles, there had been no question that the savior of Britain had no love for his Muggle relatives. As a descendant of magical blood, a war hero, and an orphan, he was offered a chance to keep his memories in tact. Unfortunately, he had been too idealistic to agree to those terms and joined the now-waning rebellion as a figurehead. His involvement is likely what garnered much of any support at all from the population at large. Otherwise fickle, most witches and wizards were all too ready to vilify Muggles, but their savior leading the charge had given many pause.

Draco just wants the fighting to end. Dennis Creevey is bad enough, but Draco still feels a roiling in his stomach when he considers the half-blood marriages that had been dissolved, children left with only one parent and a hole in their minds. The reach of the Act had been broader than he had considered when he cast his vote. It wasn't just a handful of Muggleborns from amongst his peers; it was generations of integrated muggles that were uprooted and erased from the memories of their families.

Draco firms his posture and acknowledges his father. "I understand. I will look after mother while you are away."

Lucius smirks, an expression so much like his son. "As if that woman needs looking after."

Grinning back but with little humour, Draco amends, "Well then, I'll keep her from going stir crazy or redecorating your office in a fit of pique."

The Malfoy men bid each other farewell, and Draco returns to the drudgery of his days.

It is two weeks before Lucius returns, but he does not come back alone.

* * *

"I'm only observing, the room has not been touched in sixty-three years. He could at least let me have the floors refinished." Narcissa takes a dainty sip of tea, her eyes wistful with possibilities.

True to his word, Draco has not let her touch the study in the east wing. Since Draco was a small child, he can remember his mother trying desperately to decorate the one room in the house that Lucius has claimed as his own. The manor is hers to explore aesthetics, remodels, and decor, but the room that had once been where Abraxas Malfoy conducted business has not been touched in decades.

"It's one room, Mother. Let him have his walnut paneling."

"Atrocious," she mutters into her cup. "Does nothing for that room. Eyesore to the entire house."

Draco starts to suggest that she simply shut the door, but their calm and civilized Sunday tea is shattered when Lucius Malfoy strides in with dirty boots and a gash on his cheek.

"Lucius!" Narcissa is up in a moment, gliding across the room and laying her hands on the sides of her husband's face.

"I'm quite alright, my flower. No need for concern."

She continues to fuss as Draco rises, questions swirling around his head. "Father. Welcome back."

Lucius nods and lays a reassuring hand on his wife's shoulder before calling for an elf. A glass of firewhiskey is presented quickly, a spell seals the skin of his face, and the Malfoy family enjoys being together for the first time in days.

"The Ministry will be here within the hour," he tells them. "Potter was elusive… perhaps he'd never been there… but we uncovered a safe house with three Muggleborns living in squalor. Really, we are doing them a favor. One had already succumbed to her circumstances."

Narcissa lays a hand at her breast with a small gasp. "Such a shameful waste. Why do they insist on this path? It is only harming them."

"So they're here?" Draco clarifies. The Malfoy dungeons are centuries old, barbaric and outdated, but somehow always end up remembered in times of conflict.

Lucius nods. "The two survivors and the corpse. I will need that done away with…"

The way he says it, Draco is fairly certain Lucius is expecting his son to step up. The man is a conundrum in some ways still. Does he want to see Draco more involved in the conflicts? Is he, himself, unwilling in doing the dirty clean up that results from his tasks for the Ministry? Regardless of reason, Draco steels himself and, with a preceding sigh, offers, "I can take care of the third for you father."

Inside he's cringing, disgusted at the thought. A body. Another death. Hasn't he seen enough of that in his young life? Yet it follows him to his doorstep at tea time, demanding to be confronted.

"Very well. The two that survive are in the first cell. The third is laid out down the hall. I would prefer if the details of her death or our involvement be kept quiet. Truly, her body may have been left behind and incinerated when the safe house was destroyed."

Ah. There it is. Plausible deniability. Self-preservation still rules the roost.

"I understand, Father."

Narcissa offers Draco a supportive if pained expression. He's never done well with death, yet here he is, cleaning up the mess of war to preserve the quiet sanctity of their home.

"If you'll both excuse me," he offers politely then slips from the room.

Resigning himself to a future hour of levitation and scourgify, Draco makes his way to the dungeons.

As mentioned, the first cell houses two wizards. Draco doesn't know them. Appearing to be a bit older, he would peg them in their thirties. They look a bit worse for wear, tattered and gaunt. Nearly corpses themselves.

There, laid at the end of the corridor on her back, a witch, to be sure. A witch with familiar hair, and Draco's stomach turns. No no no…

His feet feel weighted, transfigured to stone, but he drags himself to the body regardless.

Dennis Creevey with no memory of his fallen brother was hard.

Justin Finch-Fletchley, otherwise forgettable, but made to be of note when his obliviation went wrong and he had to relearn absolutely everything… that had given Draco further pause about the path his world had taken.

But this… the body of Hermione Granger isn't even cold, laid out on his ancestral floor. Draco is reminded of her screaming and begging as her blood was spilled on the parlour rug a few years before, and he is afraid he might retch.

She is laid on her back, halo of curls half obscuring her face and arms bent at odd angles. He imagines his father, dropping her with little ceremony to the floor, and it makes his fists clench. Why couldn't she just submit to the programme? Stupid witch… Ever the fucking hero, and look where she has ended up.

His thoughts are angry and sour, but his movements are cautious, touch gentle, when he pushes her hair from her face. Still and silent, skin carved from marble.

What to do with her? Shall he build a pyre to hasten her to the earth? Bury her beneath the rose bushes?

Draco closes his eyes, swallows, and levitates her body from the ground. She deserved better than to be chucked into the gardens like a lost pet. He decides as he walks that he will entomb her in stone.

The Malfoy property is vast, but easily traversed. Well kept and level grounds are dissected with paths of brick and stone, hedgerows and flowering plants lining the way. He follows them in silence until he has reached the far corner of the southern wards. There are Malfoy tombs to the north, but here is erected the the final resting place for various members of household that did not bear his name. An orphaned maid from the eighteenth century, a beloved stablehand from the next. Granger might not have been valued here… Draco had hardly even liked her for fuck's sake… but she had been an important part of the world. Of _his_ world, even.

He lays the body gently down on the slab alight with ever-burning candles. Should he say words? He supposes she deserves that much, but he's not sure what he would even say.

Focusing on a crack in the slab, resolutely not looking at her face, he tries to put voice to his secret thoughts. "I've wondered about you," he starts softly. "I wondered if you were alright. I thought maybe… maybe you'd run, left Britain. Imagined you were somewhere with Potter and Weasley, maybe holed up on some island in the sun. You fought hard, Granger. For a world that betrayed you in the end. I might have been on the other side, but that doesn't mean I can't see it for what it is. I'm sorry this is where you ended up. I hope your Muggle gods welcome you home."

There is a bowl of soil laid at her feet, and Draco takes a healthy fistful to adorn her skin. Sifting through the slits of his fingers, he lets the rich earth make trails on her arms and legs, rejoining her magic to the natural stream.

One last look, he decides. To memorize her features since he is the only one to bear witness to her passing. That, at least, he can do.

He studies her, the cupid's bow of her lip and the smooth quality of her skin. She was beautiful without effort, though he had never admitted it to himself. Unable to resist, Draco lays a hand against her face and rubs his thumb across the bone of her cheek. He wonders if her friends know she is dead. He wonders if Potter really is still alive.

Eyes squeezed closed, Draco takes a cleansing breath and lets his hand fall away, preparing to leave her here for the magical crypt to take its due. Her body will be refined into new earth inside these marble walls within days. Such a fucking waste…

His dragonskin boots scuff the floor as he turns, making enough noise that he almost misses the breathy whisper that echoes into the air.

"Ron?"

Scrambling back, Draco presses himself against the wall, eyes darting. He's alone… no ghosts or demons to haunt him. Alone with a slowly shifting Hermione Granger, brown eyes blinking open as her head turns his way.

"Granger?"

She darts up, scooting so far on the slab he thinks she will fall off. She rights herself and stands, keeping distance between them.

"Malfoy?...Where am I?" She sounds panicked, eyes darting about the room.

"I… the fuck?! I thought you were dead! You _were_ dead!"

Those panicked, darting eyes dim and fill with tears that momentarily refuse to fall. She blinks, and they cascade down her cheeks. "He brought me back. Did he know?"

"Who? Did who know what?" Draco straightens his posture. It won't do to let her know how much her resurrection jarred him.

"Your father," she answers back. "He brought me here, didn't he? Is this where they do it then? Erase everything I am? Are we at the Ministry?"

Draco looks around once, baffled. "No, we aren't at the fucking Ministry. We are in a _crypt_ , Granger," he says, emphatic. "You were fucking _dead_."

"I was never dead, obviously," she corrects. "Draught of Living Death. I hoped no one would bother with my body…" She trails off in thought, then her eyes snap back to meet his. "Where is Harry? And Ron? Where are they?"

"That's the million Galleon question, isn't it," he says back with a bit of heat, a bit of being fucking sick of this war. They stare at each other, a stand off from their opposite sides of everything.

"And now?," she asks, suddenly seeming quite small. "Will you kill me? Erase me? It's much the same."

The look she is giving him is full of so much, fear and loathing and resignation, that it gives Draco pause. All the soul searching and inner philosophical debate means nothing when faced with this living embodiment of his past. She represents all the choices he has made up until now.

Dennis Creevey flashes across the black behind his eyes. _Only child, so it's just me._

What will he do with her? Draco has never been terribly brave, but he is self-serving. Right now, what would serve him well is a little absolution, and it's standing there in dirty trainers with wary eyes.

"I can keep you safe," he says and immediately is sure he's made a huge mistake. "Here." He gestures toward his home on the other side of the walls. "You can't leave; the wards will know and they'll hunt you. But if you stay, you can still… be yourself. It's not much, maybe, but it's what is in my power to give."

"You'll… hide me?"

She's so unsure, untrusting. Draco doesn't blame her for that. "I will. The raids have slowed down. Most of the Muggleborns have submitted." Her eyes narrow at his choice of words, but he rushes forward before she can protest. "My father thinks you're dead. Official report will go to the Ministry you were discovered in Italy, body destroyed. No one will look for you, Granger. You'll be safe as long as you stay hidden."

"Why on earth would you even bother?" She questions, unsure.

Why, indeed. Probably the most honest he's ever been, he answers back, "I don't know."

His words echo on the stone, and the following quiet feels heavy like a shroud. Finally, she nods at him. "I suppose I haven't much choice, but thank you. Do I…" She looks around and bites her lip, looking suddenly nervous and as young as her twenty-five years. "Do I have to stay here?"

He shakes his head. "No, of course not. I'll give you a proper place. In the manor."

"But your parents…"

"They hardly visit my private rooms, never uninvited."

She considers that, and he sees her physically steel herself. "I don't know why you're doing this, but it's worth it if I can remember who I am, even if hardly anyone else does."

"I remember," he says, heavy with meaning. "Let's get you hidden before my father wonders why I've tarried so long." He holds out his hand, intending to Apparate them across the grounds, and only upon seeing the hesitation on her face does he realize how much faith she is placing in him.

His hand nearly drops until, finally, she reaches forward, and Draco spins in place to take Hermione Granger home.

* * *

_In a startling discovery, Ministry agents have uncovered the location of two alleged members of the once revered Order of the Phoenix. Two wizards, identities undisclosed, were found in a small dwelling just outside the wizarding community of Verona, Italy. We are told evidence suggests they had been travelling with known insurgent Ronald Weasley._

_Further interrogation of the suspects reveals first hand knowledge of the death of the infamous Hermione Granger some months prior. Though loss of life is always tragic, this reporter must take some comfort that a supporter of continued war will no longer be influencing young witches and wizards to violet ends. The Ministry assures us we are close to an end to all conflict and a new era of peace under the vision and leadership of Minister Shacklebolt and the New Order._

_Rita Skeeter_

And with that, Hermione Granger, as far as the world knows, is dead.


	2. Chapter 2

In the beginning, she's absent. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The Granger that Draco knew is, to put it lightly, worse for wear. The first week, she hardly speaks, and Draco tries to stay away. Only one elf knows that she exists, and that creature takes her on as his charge.

After ten days, Pipsy tracks Draco down in the gardens, wringing his hands, eyes darting as though to find spies in their midst.

"Young Miss says she will not eat, Master Draco. Miss threw her breakfast plate over the balcony."

Sighing, pinching his nose, Draco agrees to visit her, soothing Pipsy with words of encouragement. "You've done quite well with her considering. I'll take it from here. I'll call you later for another tray."

The elf nods and pops away like he's running from battle. Draco walks into his own.

"Get out," she yells, though it's muffled by the pillow in which she's buried her face.

"Granger."

At the sound of her name, she sits up, and he sees that her eyes are shiny, cheeks tracked. "Where have you been?"

He looks at her with a completely puzzled expression, approaching cautiously as though she might bite, rabid and afraid. "You wouldn't speak. I thought you would prefer to be left alone."

"I can't live the rest of my life alone in this room," she counters, eyes still wide. "You might as well have left me in your crypt to die."

Draco doesn't know what to do, so he pretends she's another witch, abandoning all he once known about Hermione Granger. The brave and brilliant girl of his youth is hidden under layers of trauma. It occurs to him that he would very much like to peel it all away and find who she used to be.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, careful not to sit too close, Draco reaches for her hand and holds on, refusing to release her when she tries to pull away. "You're safe here, Granger. I didn't want you to feel… I don't know. I was trying not to be overbearing. But I'll visit more. Every morning, if you like. We can have breakfast together."

She's still nervous, bordering on terrified, but she quips lightly, "Sounds quite domestic."

Draco allows a grin. "Quite. If it helps, I can make fun of your hair and charm paper birds at you. You can pretend we're in the Great Hall and call me a prat. Just like old times."

She chuckles, and it's watery, but it's there. "Just like old times," she repeats, wistful, but not for the memories he offers. After a long time, her hand still held tight in his, she mentions, "I read all your books."

With a glance where her eyes have lead, Draco finds the small bookcase he had installed for his guest. At least fifty books line the shelves. Obviously, the manor library houses far more, but he's stunned by how quickly she made it through.

"All of them?"

Granger shrugs, finally extracting her hand. "Well, I'd already been through nearly half." She points to the third shelf. "That series on Dragon husbandry? I borrowed that from Charlie Weasley in sixth year. Some of the potions theory tomes as well."

Staring at her a moment, she's more like her old self than he could have hoped. The change was instantaneous, the moment they started to discuss books, her eyes finding the brightness he once associated with her gaze. It's a relief he hadn't realized he wanted. "I'll bring you more," he promises. "Anything you would prefer?"

She considers that, taking it incredibly seriously as far as he can tell. Finally she answers with, "I liked your first selection. Can you choose for me?"

It seems like a grand responsibility: choosing literature for the most intelligent witch in Britain. He preens a little, in spite of himself, in spite of his guilt. Draco smiles at her. "With pleasure. I already have some ideas." The smile she offers him in turn could shame the sun.

Things are different after that, and Draco never misses a breakfast in her company. Dinner he often must give to his mother, lunch must sometimes be taken at the office, but every morning belongs to them. He sees her as more and greater and better than he'd known, thinking what a desperate crime it would be to mess with her mind, to take away any part of who she is.

* * *

The world continues outside the Manor walls, but they never speak of it. Potter is sighted, but Draco doesn't tell her. Perhaps it will only make her sad?

Worse yet, perhaps she will want to leave, weighing the dangers with Potter and Weasley against the safety of Draco and the Manor, and finding Draco lacking.

He protects her obsessively, warding his rooms and attending to her as a bride. What he feels for her grows into something terrifying and glorious. What she feels for him, he can only assume to be lesser, to be obligatory, born of gratitude.

He knows she was with Weasley before her life ended. He assumes her heart will always belong to him, as is the natural conclusion of ill-fated love affairs. No one will ever live up to the freedom they shared together, to the devotion of lovers tied by common strife.

Still, he basks in her, delighting in her smiles and the small touches that seem natural after a while.

On one occasion, perhaps four months since she has arrived, Granger is crying when he comes to her late at night. Draco has just returned from work, only to find her shivering under a thin sheet, sobbing quietly.

Sitting beside her, he lays a hand on her shoulder. "Granger."

"What life am I living, Draco? Is this all there will ever be? You should have left me to die." She sobs, and his heart clenches in his chest. Unsure what else he can offer, Draco toes off his shoes and lays down beside her. He stays above the bed clothes, chaste and respectful, but lays an arm across her body, reaching for her hand. She grips it and holds it to her mouth, pressing her lips to his skin and soaking up the comfort he is trying to give. They fall asleep that way, bodies pressed together.

When the sun streams through her window, Draco removes himself, allowing her the solitude to make the night into anything she wants. To address or ignore at her leisure. It's the only power she has, and he gives it to her with his absence.

It hurts when she chooses to disregard, to ignore their night. That is possibly the day he knows he can't have her, and also the day he admits she's the only thing he wants.

* * *

"I wish they knew I was alive, at least. I hate how much they must worry."

Draco looks at her across their breakfast table, noting the melancholy expression on her face as she gazes out the large windows of her suite. He doesn't respond, and she turns to face him, possibly wondering if he's paying attention.

He is, of course. He thinks of little else but Hermione most days. "I think sometimes, if it wasn't for me, Harry might not have fought so hard." She offers a sad smile. This time, she waits for his reply.

"I doubt Potter needed more reason than his own sense of justice to lead a charge. It's just his nature."

"Maybe," she allows, but it doesn't sound like she believes it. She looks back out the window, eyes glazed, unseeing. "Still, I wonder if he's still fighting now. Both of them, actually. If they just moved on without me."

Draco squeezes his eyes closed, regret holding him back and pushing him forward all at once. "They haven't," he finally says, and her eyes, beautiful, endless brown eyes, snap back his direction.

"They're still fighting," he continues. "Weasley and Potter. They've managed to turn public opinion slightly. Shacklebolt is reducing sentences in regards to aiding Muggleborns."

Her eyes dart around, processing. "That's a good step," she says, and Draco can only look away. The Solution might not be sustainable after all. Ten years from now, this might all be nothing but a failed social experiment. For now, though, she's in danger if she leaves, but he can see her already imagining the freedom beyond his walls. "Of course, nothing will happen anytime soon," she comments, picking up her fork to spear a bit of egg.

He watches her eat for a moment, noting the dainty quality of her bites, her thoughtful expression.

"Would you like to visit the gardens today?" he asks.

She seems wary as she considers. "Isn't that dangerous? I could be seen."

Shaking his head, he assures her it's safe. "My parents are away all week, and the wards will not let anyone through without my permission. Come on, Granger." He smiles, rising to his feet, and offers his hand. "You're entirely too pale. Sun will do you good."

Almost surprisingly, she takes the comment as good-natured as it was intended and accepts his hand, laying her palm across it.

They walk, and he takes a chance when her hand brushes his, gently taking her fingers in his own. She looks at him in question only a moment before threading them together. They continue that way, innocently entwined, admiring the gardens and stables, until Pipsy comes to fetch them for lunch.

"This was really nice," she says, and Draco preens.

"Shall we walk again tomorrow?" He holds his breath as she considers.

After barely a moment, she nods in agreement. "Please. Could we spend more time by the pond?"

Anything, he thinks. Anything she asks. He tucks a curl behind her ear, allowing his fingertips to brush her cheek. "Whatever you'd like, Granger." Her skin blushes rose, but she doesn't look away for a long time.

It has taken him awhile, maybe months, probably only weeks, but Draco knows that he is in love with her.

* * *

It is autumn when he kisses her. Leaves swirling around their feet, and he is overwhelmed. She's laughing, eyes bright, hair kissed by the sun, and he envelopes her in his arms, pressing his lips to hers with something like reverence.

She is stiff in his hold at the start. Then, she melts, and he knows it is nothing short of a miracle when she kisses him back. Her small hands find their way into the fine strands of his hair at his neck. He shivers as her fingertips brush his skin.

It feels like a beginning, a promise of days and years to come, and he moves his mouth with hers, relieved and grateful.

Tomorrow, reality will crash into the paradise he has pretended to create.

* * *

_Meet me. WWW_

_RW_

Draco stares at the missive, hardly noticing as an awkward tawny owl flies ataxically away. Weasley. Waiting to meet him at a boarded up joke shop. For what purposes, Draco can only imagine, a sense of dread sinking into his gut.

As Percy Weasley had predicted, most of the notable family had supported Shacklebolt's Solution. Molly had been the first to concede. Overprotective and a little paranoid, she had agreed that Muggleborns could only cause damage, through no fault of their own, of course. '

"They hardly even know better," she had said one afternoon, accepting tea from his mother. "Poor things. That Granger girl only caused my poor Ronald trouble and heartbreak. Harry too."

Arthur had followed, loyal as a hound, and soon all of the siblings had decided that, while the plan had regrettable elements, it was for the best.

All, except for Ron Weasley. Say what you will about the prat, but he was a loyal sod. Whether that compulsion was for dedication to Harry or love of Hermione, Draco couldn't say, but regardless, the family had splintered once more, replacing the once ousted Percy for his younger brother.

He doesn't tell Hermione when he leaves. He simply shrugs his thin shoulders into his best robes, and makes his way to a shop that was once full of life and happiness, and is now a stark reminder of the cost of war. George Weasley refuses to sell the property, but nor can he seem to face returning to the dream his lost twin helped him build.

In the late afternoon of a quiet Sunday, the street is sparsely populated, and Draco makes his way to the garish purple storefront, largely unbothered.

Upon inspection, the door is slightly ajar, and Draco takes that as an invitation inside.

"Malfoy."

There. Standing in the corner near the back entrance, is a cloaked figure with scruffy red hair peeking from beneath a hood. He knows the voice; knows the lanky figure.

"Weasley."

"Where's Hermione?"

Draco feels his blood go to ice, but he makes no outward appearance of his distress.

"Dead. It was all over the papers. Though I'm sure periodicals are hard to come by in your circumstances."

The wizard pushes his hood back if only to level Draco with a look, ice blue eyes staring intently into his own. "She's not. Harry and I, we have a system. All of us did. As long as this shows blue, she's alive." He holds out his hand, palm up, where a small stone is pulsing a brilliant blue. Weasley closes his hand back around it, and continues. "It took some time to find out who went to Italy, but we know it was Lucius. Where is she, Malfoy?" His voice has turned hard, but there's a tremor beneath. Pain. Draco recognizes it, because it has lanced him as well.

He's going to take her away. Draco isn't sure he can breathe. He wants to deny it, of course. There is no way to be sure his father brought her back. She could be anywhere.

But he sees the desperation in those cold, blue eyes, and he remembers Hermione sobbing, wishing for death if her life could only be the purgatory in which she lives. Resigned and resolved, Draco answers, "She's safe. I'm keeping her safe. Better than I can say for you and Potter," he throws in, enjoying the moment of self-righteous assurity. Unfortunately, it's short lived.

"She would be safe if it wasn't for the likes of you and your father. Do something right for once in your fucking life, Malfoy, and let her go."

It goes on like that for some time, Draco refusing to release her and all his pragmatic reasons why, Weasley arguing for her happiness and safety. Finally, the other man breaks a little and drops into an old wooden chair, dust rising into the air as he does and glinting in the shafts of light, filtering through the windows.

"Please. Merlin, what else could you possibly want. You won, alright? Maybe not the Death Eaters, but you have _everything_." He looks back at Draco with old eyes, worn and tired. "She lost her whole family during the war, and then suddenly I lost mine. She was my home and I was hers. Please, let her go. Let her come home."

With everything he has, Draco doesn't show the moment he breaks apart. His resolve is a wave crashed against the rocky shores of this man's grief. He blinks slowly once, then says low, cold and hard, "Come to the Manor tonight. Midnight, and only you-"

"So your father can throw me in Azkaban? Like I'd trust you-"

"I'll release her to you," he interrupts in turn, not appreciating the distrust when Draco is giving the man something more valuable than all the gold in Gringotts. "But the wards will only let you in and the two of you out, so you come alone if you want he freed, Weasley. She'll be waiting for you."

Before he can see a reaction, not sure if he can bear to answer gratitude with anything short of violence, he turns and Apparates straight from the old shop and back to the Manor gates. He stands there, staring, until Pipsy pops into the space near his feet.

"Master?"

Draco looks down, barely acknowledging.

"Miss Granger is asking after Master. She is hoping he will join for dinner."

With a nod, Draco enters the house to see Hermione for the last time.

The walk to his private quarters is a thoughtful one. Will he tell her that she will finally be free? Or does he wait until the end, enjoying one final night with her? Ultimately, he makes no choice and resigns himself to letting the evening evolve naturally, whatever may come.

"Hermione."

She looks up and must see the sorrow behind his eyes. Standing to greet him, she asks, "Has something happened? Oh, Gods…" Her hands fly to cover his mouth. "Has Harry…?"

"No," he answers quickly, shaking his head. "It's nothing." It's everything, but in that moment, he can't say the words. "Apologies if I made you wait." And he flashes her a smile, praying that it reaches his eyes. She regards him warily, but retakes her seat.

Draco forces himself to speak during dinner, to laugh when her quips prompt it and to grin at her openly. They enjoy light fair, salad and a brothy soup, only to indulge in a heavy toffee pudding at the end. Her eyes alight, she makes tiny moans around her spoon, smiling shyly at her own indulgence.

He will miss her terribly, the knowledge crashing down upon him. She might be Ron Weasley's home, but she is Draco's entire world. He realizes just how much she has become the sun that he orbits, never straying far. Before today and his ruinous meeting with Weasley, when was the last time he went anywhere outside his office? His dinners with his parents have waned as he chooses to take more meals in his rooms. To the outside world, he likely appears to be within view of being a recluse. What will he do when she is gone?

Standing, he circles the small table and pulls her to her feet. Large, dark eyes blink at him, and he presses his lips to hers.

She kisses him back, this time without hesitation. Arms wrap his waist, and his own explore her back, her arms, coming to rest at her jaw to tilt her lips into his.

A soft sweep of her tongue against his, and Draco allows himself to take everything before setting her free, to answer back with so much of himself that she will never doubt why he let her go. She will realize when she is free that she left Draco Malfoy behind in wreckage, buried under his many regrets.

When the embrace could escalate, when she runs her fingertips down his chest, Draco pulls back and rests his forehead against hers, breathing shallow and desperate. He's already taken too much. The rest isn't for him to have. "I have a surprise for you later, but it has to wait. Maybe we can read for awhile? I like when you read aloud."

She preens a little, cheeks blushing.

Draco settles onto a small sofa in her sitting area while Hermione selects a book from the shelf he has only recently refilled. Eyes lowered and a demure smile on her face, she returns to him and sits close, settling into the crook of his arm where it lays around the back rest. She looks at him for assurance, and he smiles down at her while draping his hand onto her shoulder.

She reads, and it's fitting. An adventure story of a young witch who runs away from home to battle an evil wizard alongside her lover. It could be about her, but it's not about _them_. Draco has no place in a hero's tale.

At well past eleven, he stops her with his hand on the page. "It's time, Granger."

She looks up with a smile only to let it fade as she searches his face. "Is it a good surprise?"

"The best I can give you," he answers, removing his arm and standing. He offers his hand, and she takes it, but there is trepidation on her face. It hurts to know it is likely born of fear as anything else. He hopes she trusts him more than that.

At the edge of the Manor gates, far away from his parents' potential gaze, he tells her what he has done.

"What?"

"I found a way through the wards, but you have to go with someone across the barrier. One in and only the two of you out. It will only work with a single magical signature." He pauses and looks her over, memorizing her face. "I found a way to set you free. Weasley is coming to rescue you," he says, the words like shards of glass in his mouth.

"Ron?" She's confused, scrunching her face and breath coming fast.

Draco nods, tucking a curl behind her ear. "He's been looking for you. Tracked me down and begged for your release. He didn't understand that I wasn't trying to keep you trapped; I only wanted you to be safe." His voice is a whisper, the soft whistle of northern wind carrying the words away across the Manor grounds.

"Draco…"

A pop resounds and Draco squeezes his eyes shut, knowing the sound of apparition. He opens then swiftly when a second sound splits the night air.

There, standing together and gaping at Granger, are Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter.

It only takes a moment for Draco to register what the man has done and to explode in his panic. "I said alone! The wards, you stupid fuck! Only two of you can leave. And now that you've crossed, the house will know it's been breached, and Potter's magical signature is being tracked."

The pair are staring at Hermione, but she has not moved from Draco's side. Ron is staring back in horror, understanding as the pieces fall into place. It was never a plot to capture or kill them after all, and Hermione truly is here, safe and ready to leave. The wizard has figured out that he's completely fucked this up. Glancing down at Granger, Draco knows she's figured it out as well.

"Mione…" The man sounds broken and regretful and all sorts of mournful things. But even if Draco was inclined to stick his neck out further, the damage is irreparable.

"The wards won't allow all three of you through now. They registered two in, so it can only be two out, and likely there will be Aurors here in moments."

"Well… well… can you blame me?" Ron blusters back, eyes darting between all assembled. "How was I supposed to trust you? I had no way to know this wasn't a trick to murder me!"

"And the consequence of that sheer stupidity, after I risked quite a lot to help her, is you can't take her with you," Draco shoots back.

"Ron, what's going on?" Potter pipes up, slightly demanding. "I thought Malfoy was giving us Hermione back."

"I was," Draco bites out, cutting off the weak protests about to spew from Weasley. "But as I told him," he jabs a finger at the redhead, "the wards will know now. It was supposed to be him alone, taking her body back through. Ward security will lock down, and no way will it allow all three of you through."

The pair of wizards look stricken.

"Can't you…" Potter looks lost, beseeching. "Can't you do something? Help us out here?"

"I did, you prick! I brought Granger here. I hid her for _months_. I met with Weasley, even though I had every right to be as wary of meeting with him alone as he had to meet with me. I all but secured her freedom, and your pet Weasel fucked it!"

Draco is seething. Regardless that he never wanted to let her go, he promised her. He told her she would be free, and now she is standing, looking numb, realizing her fate.

_You should have left me to die in your crypt_ , repeats in his head. She is bound forever to his purgatory now. Her forgiveness was a gift, and what are the chances he can earn it twice?

"I'll stay," Weasley nearly shouts back. "Two in, two out. Keep me here and let 'Mione go with Harry."

Draco doesn't care for that idea at all. Nevermind that the wards might not even let different signatures back through, the idea of keeping Weasley here, stuck in his personal suites as the only safe place in the Manor, is very unappealing.

"You can't!" Both Granger and Potter have answered, then stare at each other in question.

"It's just... " Granger explains first, looking at them both with sad eyes. "You can't sacrifice yourself for me. I couldn't live with that."

"And Ginny," Harry says. "I can't tell her I lost you too. She'll never forgive either of us."

Draco understands without explanation. It's long been said the youngest Weasley, while publically standing with her family, is rumoured to still carry a torch for Harry Potter. It seems she might be more complicit in the rebellion than the public knows.

Draco looks back at Granger, full of regret. He will be good to her, he knows. He has kept her safe this long. If she stays, if she can find her way not to hate him for his failure, he will give her the world if he can. Though, it is hard to fit the world inside one small room. Tears are welling in her eyes. Perhaps she can read his thoughts.

Suddenly, she is flinging herself at the two wizards, sobbing into their shoulders.

Draco looks away, resolute. He listens to her choke through her tears that she misses them, loves them. Draco's heart is squeezed bloody, a vice threatening to crust it within his chest.

He doesn't look up until he feels her approach his side once again. She looks at him with an open expression. "I know you've risked so much already, but will you let me stay?"

Draco looks back at Potter and Weasley, trying not to let his relief show. The former savior of the wizarding world looks forlorn, staring at Draco with hope. His friend, however, cannot meet Draco's eyes. His fists are balled at the side, and his face mottled red in anger, likely directed at himself.

"Take care of her, please," Potter says. Draco nods once but waves them away, back toward the wards.

"You have to go, and I need to get her inside. She's safest in our rooms.

_Our rooms._

Perhaps he said it on purpose just to see the widening of Weasley's eyes.

_Your home, my world_.

Grabbing ahold of his friend, Potter spins in place, one last look at Hermione, and Apparates them away.

In his suite, Draco can hardly look at his charge, feeling guilt for his failure, elation at the outcome, and guilt for that as well.

"I'm so sorry," he says, remembering her embracing her friends, sobbing that she loves them. She starts to say something, but he just mutters another apology and closes himself into his private room.

XXXXXX

* * *

Lucius is unamused by what is eventually dubbed a failure of the wards. Of _course_ Potter was not lurking around the Malfoy stables in the dead of night. Why on earth would anyone believe as much?

Draco keeps his head down for days, giving renewed attention to Malfoy Industries and the workings of the Manor. He begins to take breakfast with Hermione once again, but it has become quiet and somber, him leaving for his office as soon as she lays her napkin by her plate. This morning she had seemed as if she wanted to say more, venturing into conversation simply by saying his name when he had started to rise. He had stopped, granting her his attention.

"It's not so terrible," she had said, "being here. Thank you for keeping me safe." Her words of gratitude had hurt more than he could say. His fantasies of earning her love and trust had mocked him as he nodded at her.

"Anything I can give you, Granger, it's yours. I'm sorry it wasn't enough this time." She had reached for him, face crumpling with something that tasted bitter like pity, and he had swiftly left the room.

His father, meanwhile, has seemed quite pleased with Draco's performance and choices. Over dinner, Lucius praises him in the backhanded way that is his specialty.

"I'm glad you've shown yourself to be responsible for the family's dealings, Draco. I had found your attention lacking of late."

"Apologies, just a bit of autumn melancholy these past weeks. I'm feeling much more engaged now."

Clapping his son on the shoulder, Lucius makes his way from the Malfoy dining room, leaving Narcissa staring openly at her son.

He starts to excuse himself, rising and bending his head politely, when she stops him with a word.

"Draco."

He pauses in question, tilting his chin in invitation for her to proceed.

"It is interesting that the servants crypt has been disturbed, but no new signatures were taken to the earth. And then this business with the wards...I fear the Manor might have some security issues to rectify."

His breath is trapped in his lungs, and he feels his knees struggle to hold his weight. After a long pause, mother and son looking deep behind their eyes, she lifts her cup and takes a sip of tea, dropping her gaze.

"Given the state of the wards, ridiculous outdated things, I am having them reset on Friday to ensure our safety. Perhaps you would like to personally oversee the warding in your rooms? I know how private a young man can be. Wouldn't want your father interrupting if you've a lady to entertain," she muses.

Narcissa continues to sip, looking down at her cup then studying the china before her, tracing one manicured nail down the long silver line of her resting spoon.

Clearing his throat, Draco agrees. "I'll be certain to be available that day, Mother."

"Excellent. One less thing for me to concern myself." She looks back up, a sparkle in her eye, and bids him a good evening. "Have a lovely night, darling. Thank you for joining me for dinner. I assume, of course, you will have other arrangements for breakfast?" She smiles into her cup and takes another long sip.

Draco turns and makes his way to his rooms, walking swiftly and flinging the door open once he reaches Hermione's suite.

"Granger?"

She's standing by the balcony doors, moonlight kissing her bare shoulders.

This isn't the life he might have chosen for her, and maybe one day it will be different, but this is the one he has to give.

Striding across the room, he takes her face in his hands and looks at studies her eyes, hoping to find forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he says. It feels like all he's said for the past days. "I wanted to find a way to let you go, but I couldn't. More than that, I didn't want to. I want you to stay, and I'm sorry for that,too."

And then he kisses her, hard and insistent, proving the sincerity of his adoration better than he is capable with words. He pulls back just enough to say that he loves her. "More than I have a right to," he adds, kissing the side of her mouth. "More than you should let me," he laments, laying his mouth against her cheek. "I'll keep you safe. Forever, if I have to. Or I'll find a way to change the laws. I'll run for Minister or bribe the Wizengamot. No one will ever touch you. No one will ever make you forget."

"Draco?"

He looks at her, waiting for rejection even as he has found his resolve. Even if she can never want him, if her heart always returns to Weasley, he will fight for her, _earn_ her, if she will allow it.

Her face is twisted in confusion, but her delicate hand reaches to trail the side of his face. "Are you alright? Has something happened?"

He shakes his head, unsure what to say. Was her fate of so little concern? Can he dare to hope that being trapped here has not weighed on her mind?

"I want to make you happy, Hermione. Here, with me. I'll give you everything."

She smiles softly, head tilting. "I have everything I need here. I have you."

Soaring higher than on any broom, Draco sweeps her up and kisses her, smothering her giggle with his lips on hers. He kisses her face, mouth and cheeks and nose, her laughing all the while until he joins her. When he sets her back down, her feet finding the earth with dainty grace, she looks at him with so much affection he thinks it might kill him.

"You're very serious today, love. Did your mother give you grief at dinner? I told her I didn't mind a winter wedding if that is what she prefers."

A beat.

A world tilting, and suddenly Draco isn't laughing or smiling or moving, hardly breathing. Then, he's greedy for air, sure he might drop to his knees. No no no no…

"Draco, darling, I've just come to bid you and Miss Granger a lovely evening."

He turns slowly, Hermione's concerned gaze pinning him, his mother's cool expression chilling the blood in his veins. "Mother?"

Pure grace, chin up, she enters the room and sweeps up to him and his witch. "You didn't believe anything occurs in my household without my knowledge, did you, dragon? Miss Granger has been more than agreeable in regards to Malfoy expectations." Her gaze shifts to Hermione. "Is that not correct, dear?"

Watching the exchange, Draco sees Hermione nod in response. "Of course. Really, I understand. The preferences of the house matriarch should always be consulted in these matters. My mother may have been a squib, but she taught me that much." She chuckles, and Draco feels moisture prick at his eyes.

He steps into his mother's space, studying her, eyes desperately searching the blank expression in hers. Voice lowered, he can hardly ask for confirmation. "Mother, you didn't…"

She nods, and answers quietly, "I did. Kingsley has already cleared her papers so a marriage contract can be approved." Her eyes soften, nearly warm for a fleeting moment, as she adds, "For you, Draco. And her. You can't have a life in this room."

He doesn't even try to stop the moisture that finally cascade over his lashes. "She would rather die…" he laments, mourning Hermione's loss in her stead.

Narcissa straightens her shoulders, face going impassive once again. "Well, that's a terribly impractical outlook, isn't it?"

She turns, robes swirling around her feet, heels clicking across the stone tile. "I'll see you both at breakfast then."

Behind him, Hermione answers, "Of course! Good night, Missus Malfoy."

With one last turn, she gives the both of them a once over. "Call me Narcissa, dear. Or Mother, if you like. We are to be family, after all."

When Draco looks back to Hermione, she is smiling with silent tears falling down her cheeks. He pulls her in, clinging tight to her warmth and hating himself more than he thought possible.

"I haven't had a mother in a long time," she mumbles into his chest, so quiet he barely hears.

Draco pulls back, looking down at her. The confusion is back on her face. "That is, I can't remember her so it must have been a long time… right?"

He swallows. "I don't know," he manages in a rasp. "I'm sorry, Granger, I honestly don't know."

"Neither do I," she whispers, tears tracking her skin, puddling at the corner of her lips. He kisses them away, but they are endless.

"I've got you, Granger."

Burying her face into his chest, she nods again. Nods and nods, head shaking emphatically as she sobs and can't even explain why. "Never let me go," she begs, and he promises he won't, he can't, and he loves her as he mourns her.

Even the furies of hell are weeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The furies weeping line is a direct nod to the original myth. Thank you once again to all of you. I hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to all who are reading. I admit to being less than stellar at replying to reviews on this site, but I see you and I heart you.


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